


Fun Size

by SevereStorms, wreckingthefinite



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Chubby Kink, Feeding Kink, Halloween Candy, Hand Feeding, M/M, Sexual Content, Teasing, Trick or Treat Yourself 2016, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, chubby bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/SevereStorms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: Bucky has highly scientific reasons for eating a lot of fun-sized candy, and Steve has his own reasons for enjoying fun-sized Bucky. For iwritetheweirdstuff/mwestbelle's Trick Or Treat Yourself Halloween Chub Fest 2016.





	

“Hey, Buck,” is the first thing Bucky hears, and he instantly feels disoriented. The words should be Russian, should be _dobroye utro, soldat_ , and he should feel the straps, the hard metal of the chair underneath his body. Instead, he’s hearing Steve’s voice, and he’s lying on a soft surface, warm and comfortable. Bucky’s eyes flutter open, temporarily overwhelmed by the bright white light in the room.

“Hey,” he says, muzzily. “What am I – why am I awake?” Memories flicker through his mind, tumbling over one another, completely failing to assemble into a coherent picture. He shouldn’t be awake right now – should he? “Where are we?” 

“Brooklyn. Here, drink this.” Steve pushes a warm ceramic cup into his hand and his sits up, sipping obediently. It’s coffee, hot and sweet and strong, and he feels better almost as soon as the caffeine and sugar hit his bloodstream. 

He takes another sip of the coffee, shoving his hair out of his face and looking around. He’s in a small bedroom, bookshelves along one wall, a vaguely familiar cityscape just visible through the room’s small window. “Brooklyn,” he says. “I’m supposed to be in cryo. In Wakanda.” He turns to look at Steve, who’s smiling down at him, handsome and golden. He looks happy. “What’s going on?” 

“You don’t remember? We took you out of cryo last week. Wanda and Nat, they were able to break through the mind control. The trigger words.” 

Bucky sets down the coffee cup and presses his fingertips into his temple. He doesn’t feel any different, and he doesn’t remember anything between now and when he’d gone back under. “I don’t remember,” he says. “How’d they do it?” 

“Natasha broke her own Hydra conditioning, years ago. And Wanda, she has certain abilities, when it comes to peoples’ minds. I don’t really understand exactly what they did, but the gist of it was Natasha provided a kind of road map, and Wanda went in and broke the connections that made the triggers work. After they gave me hell about not asking them for help in the first place,” he adds, sheepishly. 

“Okay,” Bucky says, letting this information sink in. “And now we’re in Brooklyn? Isn’t that risky? Aren’t we all wanted by a hundred countries, including this one?” 

“We’re in a safehouse. There’s a tunnel in the basement that leads straight to the Wakandan embassy. We’ll lie low. If we get made, we run for it. We can be back in Wakanda in a matter of hours.” 

Bucky wants to ask more – like why they need to be in Brooklyn at all, why they’re going to all this trouble to try to fix all the things that are broken inside him – but right now, there are more pressing issues. “Is there anything to eat?” he asks. “I’m starving. Always hungry when I get out of cryo.” 

“Sure,” Steve says, looking even happier. “Come downstairs, have some breakfast. Nat and Wanda are here – they’ll be glad to see you up and about.” 

*

Bucky can feel Wanda’s eyes on him as he works his way through the bag of bagels she and Natasha had bought at the little bakery down the street, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed. He really is starving. He reaches for another bagel, smearing it generously with cream cheese before taking a huge bite. He catches her look and lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, blushing. He remembers her from the Leipzig Airport, but they’ve never really talked. “You must be hungry.” 

“Yeah, well,” he says. “You would be, too, trust me.” Then, polishing off the last of the bagel, he asks, “So what’s the plan? What are we doing, here?” 

“Right now, we’re just trying to get you better,” Steve says. “There isn’t an emergency or anything.” 

“I thought you did that already,” he says, looking at Wanda and Natasha. “You said they fixed it so the trigger words won’t work anymore.” 

“We did,” Natasha says. “But there’s more to it than that. We fixed the worst problem, the thing that posed the biggest threat, but you know how Hydra works. They corrupt good memories, implant false ones. We need to work on reclaiming as much of your true self as we can.” 

Bucky smiles bleakly. “I’ve been trying to do that for two years,” he says. “Easier said than done.” 

“But you were all alone, in a foreign country,” Natasha says. “We think it might be easier with Steve, here in Brooklyn. I’ve been through this, too. Trust me, it’s easier if you’re someplace where you have a lot of good memories.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says. “So…what? I just hang out here and look at Steve and have good memories? That’s the plan?” 

“There’s more to it than that,” Nat says. 

“Like what?” 

“Like this,” Steve says, grabbing a large plastic bag off the counter and pushing it towards Bucky.

Bucky peers into the bag, which is, mystifyingly, full of candy. He reaches in and pulls out a bite-sized piece, wrapped in dark brown paper. “You’re going to cure me with Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews?” he asks, incredulous. 

“You remember these?” Steve asks, taking one of the candies, unwrapping it, and handing it to Bucky. “We used to get them all the time.” 

Bucky pops the candy into his mouth, chewing slowly. As the familiar flavors of roasted nuts, molasses and chocolate unfurl on his tongue, the memory comes. “Sure I do,” he says. “We used to pocket handfuls of’em at the cigar store on Atlantic when we were broke. They get stuck in your teeth for hours.” 

Steve smiles radiantly at him, then turns to beam at Natasha and Wanda. “It’s working,” he says. 

“What’s working?” Bucky asks. 

“Paprikash,” Wanda says. 

“Paprikash?” Bucky asks. “What, like the stew?” 

Wanda fidgets in her seat, obviously uncomfortable with all eyes on her. “When I was – when I wasn’t allowed to leave headquarters, last year – Vision tried to make me paprikash. It was silly, but he thought it might make me feel better, tasting something from home. It might have worked, if he’d known how to make it. I was just thinking – food. There are a lot of memories in food.” 

“Taste, smell, texture – all of that is great for bringing back memories and reinforcing them,” Natasha chimes in. “It’s basic operant conditioning, but it’s positive, the reverse of what Hydra did.” 

Steve rifles through the bag and pulls out a bag of candy corn, rips it open, and hands a piece to Bucky. “Remember this stuff?” he asks. 

“Sure I do. What’d they used to call it? Chicken feed?” 

“That’s right,” Steve says. 

Bucky pops the candy into his mouth, chews it thoughtfully. The cloying sweetness, the gritty-chewy texture, the faint aftertaste of honey all take him back to a dark movie theater, himself and Steve in the front row, passing the paper box back and forth in front of the flickering screen. “We’d eat them at the movies, because my mom said I’d rot my teeth out, or spoil my dinner, so we couldn’t bring them home.” 

“Never did spoil your dinner, though,” Steve says, grinning. 

“Well, not so’s I’d let on,” Bucky says. “Made myself eat everything so she wouldn’t suspect.” He remembers how achingly full he’d be by the time he finished his supper, his ma watching him, eagle-eyed, to make sure he polished off every last bite.

“Grandpa candy,” Natasha says, smiling across at Wanda. “Hydra doesn’t stand a chance.” 

*

Steve throws himself into the task of triggering Bucky’s memories. The bag of candy he’d had at the ready when Bucky woke up was just the beginning; he spends hours staring at the computer screen and ordering various sweets, paying $10 or more for candy that used to be a penny apiece, a lifetime ago.

The truth is that Steve is putting so much energy into tracking down candy because he doesn’t quite know what else to do with himself, doesn’t quite know how to feel. He has known Bucky exists—alive if not well—for years. But that knowledge, unsettling as it might have been, was nothing compared to this sudden reintroduction of Bucky into his life. There had barely been time to blink, let alone process anything, between Bucharest and Wakanda, and Steve was left feeling stunned, bereft all over again, when they’d left T’Challa’s compound after Bucky had gone back under. 

Now that Bucky’s back one more time, Steve still can’t quite wrap his mind around it, can’t quite connect the dots between his charming, long-dead best friend, the beautiful and terrifying stranger who had called Steve his mission, and the hulking, resigned man in their safe house. He can’t quite keep his eyes off Bucky, as if he’ll disappear—or morph again into yet another stranger—if Steve isn’t watching. 

For all that this third incarnation of Bucky Barnes differs from the previous two, there are shades of his old self that remain, only a little obscured under the too-long hair and the scruffy beard, the new width of his shoulders and his chest. Steve can still read a lot of his expressions, can gauge his reactions even though Bucky is quiet, almost docile in his responses to most everyone in the safe house. 

Sometimes Bucky responds very, very favorably to candy – when Wanda pulls out a Baby Ruth and hands it to him, Bucky eats the entire bar in four efficient bites before he smiles a little at Steve. “We’d get these at the corner store if we were flush,” he says, and it’s not the whole story—not the details about how sometimes Bucky had spare pocket money, more than Steve did anyway, and Bucky would buy enough for both of them, shake his head when Steve tried to get offended about it—but the way Bucky cocks his head, the oddly gentle nature of his little smile, makes Steve think that Bucky remembers those details, too, even if he doesn’t spill them in front of everyone else. 

When Steve pulls out a package of Necco wafers, he has to work to hide his smile. These had been among Steve’s favorite candy, chalky-sweet pastel discs that crushed up satisfyingly against your teeth, over your tongue, and tasted just slightly of medicine and mint under the sugary sweetness. Bucky, though, had hated them. 

“Try these,” he says, and Bucky dutifully tosses a couple into his mouth.

“Oh, Christ, that’s awful,” Bucky says immediately, chewing and swallowing as if it’s an effort. “Here, Stevie, take ‘em, you like this shit.”

And Steve feels a smile tugging across his lips, because yes, he does, and because no one has called him Stevie in seventy-five years. 

*

“You give that man anything but sugar?” Sam asks when he comes over to visit and sees Bucky surrounded by candy wrappers on the couch, surreptitiously picking Bit-o-Honey out of his teeth.

The truth is that yes, they do; their takeout expenses have been enormous, mostly because Bucky eats enough for at least three people most of the time. He says it’s because he’s just out of cryo, and that makes sense, to an extent – it’s not as if he was having any meals in the freezer – but it’s been weeks, now, and that initial hunger has to have faded. 

And besides, between the takeaway Chinese and the pizza delivery and the endless parade of candy, Bucky doesn’t _look_ like a man who’s missed any meals. 

He looks even thicker than he had in Romania, when Steve had been floored to see Bucky once again bigger than Steve. And he’s even bigger now, his broad shoulders round and soft under his stretched-tight sweatshirts, his face fuller than Steve has ever seen it, round cheeks accented by a sweetly soft double chin that deepens when he smiles. 

He’s always in layers, a hoodie over a henley over a t-shirt, so Steve can’t know for certain, but his waist looks thicker, too. Like maybe it’s as soft as his jawline. 

“I’m just saying, it’s not like it all has to be candy,” Sam says, settling in to give Bucky some shit. “You think the man can’t remember a sandwich?”

“I can remember your mom,” Bucky mumbles, shoving a handful of circus peanuts into his mouth without even a modicum of grace. 

Sam starts to respond, but Steve cuts him off before they can really get going. “Most of his favorites were things his mom made,” he says. “There’s no way any of us could recreate it. No one could cook like Buck’s ma.”

It’s true; she’d been an excellent cook and a woman who believed in the palliative powers of food. Whenever Steve had come around, she’d shoved food at him, more than he could possibly eat. Steve was never sure if it was because she was used to raising Bucky, who had apparently been a bottomless pit since birth, or if it was because Steve was so small she thought he needed the extra meals. Whatever the reason, she’d plied him with baked goods every time he’d stepped foot in the Barnes’ apartment. Steve, who’d never had much of an appetite back then, had always taken it politely and then passed whatever it was – biscuits, cookies, fresh slices of bread dripping with butter – over to Bucky, who would good-naturedly eat his own and then Steve’s, too. 

*

Steve knows for sure that Sam doesn’t actually hate Bucky when, the next day, he brings over a Halloween-themed package of pumpkin-shaped Reese’s peanut butter cups and tosses them into Bucky’s lap. “If you’re gonna eat junk, at least eat something decent and not that old man shit Steve’s been giving you.”

Bucky doesn’t say thank you, but he does proceed to work his way through all six of the peanut butter cups, interspersing sips of Coke between every few bites. 

“That trigger anything for you?” Sam asks, eyeballing Bucky as he leans back against the couch, looking full and lazy, impossibly bulky in his sweats, hair pulled back in a knot to reveal the full extent of his chubby, chubby cheeks. 

“Nope,” Bucky says, drawling the word out. 

“You just ate all six to be sure?” 

Bucky props his booted feet up on the coffee table in an insolent sprawl. “Yup.”

Steve swallows hard. This Bucky—cocky and sure of himself—feels a little bit more like the boy he used to be, but he’s also very, very different. 

And very, very big. 

As Sam and Bucky descend into good-natured sniping, Steve lets their voices wash over him, deeper intonations of the same schoolyard taunts he’d heard Bucky exchange with all the boys in their neighborhood, once upon a time. It’s a relief—partially because it feels familiar, and partially because it’s a blessed distraction from this new, overwhelmingly large version of Bucky, so big he takes up all the available space, and oxygen, in a room. 

*

“This is weird, right?” Clint says, when he stops by one afternoon, several weeks later. He’s carrying twin armloads of paper bags, and Wanda helps him set them down on the kitchen counter. “I mean, I guess we got used to Steve, and it’s not that different. But look at that. The Winter Soldier is sitting on the sofa, eating candy and watching _Ancient Aliens._ Is it just me? It seems weird.”

“It’s weird,” Wanda agrees, pulling a foil-wrapped container out of one of the bags. “What’s in here?” 

“Nat said you guys are living on takeout, so I thought I’d bring dinner from someplace nice. A lasagna from Di Fiore’s, bunch of garlic bread, beer, tiramisu. And I picked up some Halloween candy. Not,” he adds, with a significant look into the living room, “that it looks like anyone’s starving to death.” 

“No,” Wanda agrees. “Definitely not starving.” 

“What’s he doing, eating his feelings or something?” 

“His memories, actually,” Wanda says. “It’s a sort of therapy. He’s doing really well.” She feels a little defensive, and she doesn’t quite know why. 

“I’m not judging. It’s just…” he trails off, looking at Bucky. “He really chunked out, didn’t he? Since the last time I saw him?” 

Wanda follows his gaze and looks at Bucky, really _looks_ , for the first time since he’d come out of cryo. He’d seemed big then, but now, looking at him slouched on the sofa next to Steve, she sees what Clint’s talking about. He’d always had a little bit of a double chin, but now it’s more pronounced, and there’s a perceptible roundness to his middle that had definitely not been there before. And his arm looks thicker, soft-looking, tugging the fabric of his hoodie sleeve taut. 

But he also looks happy, contented in a way she’s never seen him before. 

“I hadn’t really noticed,” Wanda says, loyally. 

“What didn’t you notice?” Steve asks, striding into the kitchen and refilling his water glass from the tap. 

“Bucky’s getting fat,” Clint says bluntly. “I was just wondering if it’s bad for him – do supersoldiers get high cholesterol?” 

“He’s fine,” Steve says quickly, but Wanda can see two little spots of color high up on his cheekbones, and he stares at his water glass, avoiding eye contact. “He’s a hundred years old, Clint, give the man a break.” 

“Just asking,” Clint says, with a hands-up gesture. “Not my business. But I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have brought all this Halloween candy.” 

“You brought candy?” Steve asks. He rifles through the groceries, producing a bag of fun size chocolate-covered Payday bars. “Oh, this is perfect,” he says, hurrying back to the living room. He unwraps a bar and hands it to Bucky. “Try this.” 

Wanda follows Clint into the living room and watches as Bucky bites into the bar. “Oh my god,” he says, around the mouthful of candy. “Is this a Chicken Dinner?” 

“You remember those?” 

“Course I do. These things got us through the Depression,” Bucky says, polishing off the tiny bar. “Are there more? I can’t believe they still make them. I don’t remember them being this small, though.” 

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Clint asks. “Chicken dinner? It’s a candy bar.” 

“Chicken Dinner _was_ a candy bar,” Steve explains. “They don’t make them anymore, but this is almost the same.” He hands the rest of the miniature bars to Bucky, who frowns down at the brightly-colored wrappers. 

“Fun size? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. What’s fun about having to rip all these stupid things open?” 

“I’ll open them for you, Buck,” Steve says, settling back into the sofa next to Bucky. “Here, let me.” 

“Totally weird,” Clint mutters to Wanda. 

“I think it’s sweet,” she says. “And if it’s working, who cares if it’s weird?”

*

It’s not like Bucky’s oblivious to what’s going on.

There are the looks, for one thing, the concerned ones he gets from Sam and Clint, like they think they ought to say something but can’t quite bring themselves to do it. He’s caught looks from Natasha, too, but she seems more amused than concerned. And Wanda seemed to view his increasing bulk as an entirely positive development, snuggling up next to him on the sofa and telling him how comfortable he’s getting. 

And then there’s Steve, who looks more than anyone, but never says or does anything – although Bucky suspects he’d like to. It’s not exactly like Steve’s being subtle, taking every available opportunity to stuff him so full of candy he can hardly move, his eyes dipping down to Bucky’s growing belly with naked longing whenever he thinks nobody’s looking. 

Which only makes Bucky want to eat more. 

Tonight, after dinner – after a ridiculous amount of lasagna and some kind of creamy, coffee-flavored cake and beer and handful after handful of candy –Bucky can really feel it, all the weight he’s gained. He’s incredibly full, his belly lying like a heavy weight on top of him, stretching the fabric of his shirt and the waistband of his sweatpants – but it’s not all food. He’s getting fat. 

“Well, fuck,” he says, letting his hand drift up over the round hill of his belly.

There’s a knock on his door. He briefly considers struggling up to answer it, but he’s much too full. “Come in,” he nearly groans. 

Steve pokes his head into the room, holds up a large shopping bag. “I, um, got you some stuff.” 

“I swear to god, Steve, if it’s candy, it’s going to have to wait,” Bucky says, patting the side of his gut in illustration of his fullness. “I think I overdid it a little.” 

Steve twitches, like he’d just received a static shock, but, frustratingly, doesn’t take the bait. “It’s not. I, uh, got you some new clothes.” He opens the bag and produces a pair of jeans, a pair of sweats, some t-shirts, a new hoodie, and a new version of Bucky’s favorite henley, which hasn’t fit properly for weeks. 

“Why?” Bucky asks, to see what Steve will say – to see if he can get him to say anything. 

“Oh. Well – you…haven’t had anything new for a while, right?” 

_Dammit._ “Nope.” Bucky says, flipping the undone drawstring at his waist. “Probably due for some new stuff.” 

Steve’s gaze roams over him to alight on the loose ends of the drawstring, his face flushes pink, and a little sigh escapes him, briefly loosening the set of his shoulders, like he’s melting from the inside. 

“Help me change out of these sweats,” Bucky says, perversely, just to see if Steve will do it. “Too full.” 

“Oh. Okay,” Steve says. “Um.” 

Bucky watches as he bends down, slips his fingers into the waistband of the pants and carefully tugs them down, solicitously leaving the boxers underneath in place. Bucky struggles up onto his elbow, letting his belly roll forward onto his lap. Steve pauses, sets his jaw, and kneels down to roll the new pair up over Bucky’s knees. 

Bucky lifts his hips so Steve can slide them all the way up, grunting a little with the effort. Then – oh god – Steve ties the drawstring, and even though Bucky sucks in to let him do so unimpeded, Steve’s hand touches the underside of his belly, just a quick, light, utterly thrilling touch. As soon as the knot is tied, Bucky lets out his breath and Steve turns an even deeper shade of red, eyes locked on Bucky’s fully expanded gut. 

“There you go,” he says. 

“Thanks,” Bucky says. “Much better.” 

“I should go to bed,” Steve says, not moving. 

“It’s late,” Bucky agrees. Steve is still kneeling there, between his knees, one hand on the side of the bed, inches from Bucky’s hip. “Well, good night,” Steve says. “See you tomorrow.” He stands up, hesitates, and turns toward the door. 

“See you tomorrow,” Bucky says, slumping back onto the bed, uncomfortable now in a completely different way than he had been before. 

*

Steve is fully aware that Bucky is getting fat.

Bucky might already _be_ fat, if Steve’s being honest with himself. 

His double chin is pronounced all the time, and his gut—and that’s what it is, a round beer gut that sticks out like a ball when he’s standing and rolls forward, soft and insistent, when he sits—is always visible, even if he’s crammed into one of his new hoodies, which are already not as loose as they had been when Steve had first bought them. 

He’s getting fat, and Steve knows he should probably quit handing him candy, and ordering him entire extra-large pizzas, and stocking the fridge with glass bottles of Coke that Bucky will mindlessly drink. He should stop. 

He doesn’t want to stop.

Part of it is that food really does seem to trigger memories, usually good ones, for Bucky. 

And part of it is that Bucky looks relaxed when he’s full-- _more than full, stuffed, he’s stuffing himself like crazy_ , a voice in the back of Steve’s mind insists—when he’s leaned back on the couch, eyes sleepy and soft. 

And part of it is that every new ounce of pudge that accumulates on Bucky’s chubby cheeks, every inch that piles onto his chunky waist, makes Steve so achingly, blindingly hard he can barely think straight. 

That’s not even the worst part of it. Sure, Steve is jerking himself into oblivion seven nights a week thinking about what Bucky had looked like when Steve was peeling his too-tight sweatpants down from his thick thighs. Yeah, he’s imagining in excruciating, brain-melting detail what it would have been like if he’d taken that opportunity to reach up and poke Bucky in the tummy, point out exactly why he’d needed all those new clothes. And yes, god in heaven, he’s imagining what it might have been like not just to touch Bucky’s stomach but to grab a handful of that soft chub in his hand and _squeeze_ , just to see what Bucky would do. 

But the worst part is that the fatter Bucky gets, and the more concerned everyone else seems to get about it, the more Steve can’t stop thinking about it and the harder it is for him to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s rounded gut. The harder it is not to imagine what Bucky would look like if he swelled up even more, his tummy pushing forward until it brushed his thighs, his arms chunking up until they brushed up constantly against his pudgy sides, where his ribs were hidden under tubby rolls. 

For fuck’s sake. It’s inappropriate, and it’s perverse, and it’s the worst sort of objectification of Bucky, who’s _trying to recover_ damn it. 

In his spare time, Steve wallows miserably in guilt over it. 

Except—well. Except that sometimes, occasionally, Steve’s not sure that Bucky is entirely oblivious to the situation. Sometimes, maybe, it seems like Bucky knows exactly what Steve’s thinking, knows exactly how much it drives Steve crazy when he shoves down an entire pizza and then chases it with a couple of Cokes, until his stomach is visibly distended and taut. 

Sometimes Bucky doesn’t look one iota like a recovering trauma victim. Sometimes he looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to Steve and is enjoying every deviant second of it. 

Like tonight. Everyone else went out, better things to do on a Friday night than sit with a couple of old men, and Bucky had glutted himself even more than usual, like the absence of the rest of the Avengers freed him up from even a passing acquaintance with restraint. They’d ordered copious amounts of Mexican food, and Bucky had worked his way through an enormous platter of nachos and two massive orders of carnitas, diligently forking up chunks of marinated pork and dropping them onto soft flour tortillas and then rolling them up one-handed before devouring them in a few quick bites. 

Steve had set his own meal down on the coffee table half-eaten, and Bucky had leaned forward with a groan, like his tummy was so full he could hardly bear to lean over it, and then casually plowed through the remainder of Steve’s tamales, too. 

Now Bucky’s sprawled back against the sofa, one of the t-shirts Steve bought him just a couple of weeks ago clinging to the swollen curve of his tummy, taking slow, careful sips of his third bottle of Coke, and Steve feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. “We got any candy?” Bucky asks out of nowhere, and Steve fights to keep his jaw from dropping. 

“You want candy?” He blinks. “After all that?”

Bucky shrugs, picking up the remote and flipping through a few channels before sliding his eyes slyly over to Steve. “Why not?” And Jesus, this is too much – Bucky _has_ to know he’s driving Steve crazy. He has to.

“You can’t be hungry,” Steve says flatly. This is ridiculous. Bucky looks like he’s going to pop. Never mind that Steve’s dick is pressed painfully against his fly, never mind that there’s nothing else on earth Steve thinks he wants more, right this second, than to watch Bucky eat pretty much anything. 

Bucky shrugs again, looking directly at Steve now. “I thought you wanted me to eat it,” he says, and now he’s blatantly watching Steve like a cat eying a mouse. 

Steve swallows. He’s never been able to resist a gauntlet once it’s thrown, and Bucky damn well knows it. He might not everything, but he knows Steve well enough to know that. 

“You’re getting fat,” Steve says, and he can feel the heat in his cheeks, but he gets the words out. Calls Bucky’s bluff. 

“Am not,” Bucky says, and—damn him—he keeps his face absolutely straight, still watching Steve like he’s waiting for something. 

“Yes you are.” Steve reaches over, and his hand barely shakes at all when he taps his fingers lightly on the side swell of Bucky’s gut. “You are. Look at that.” 

Bucky glances briefly down at himself, cocking one eyebrow. “I’ll be damned,” he says, sounding completely unsurprised. “So…you’re saying I should skip the candy, is that it?” 

Steve does not want Bucky to skip the candy. “I’m just saying that if you don’t, you’re going to get even fatter,” he says, almost tripping over the last word. The thought of Bucky getting even bigger, his belly taking up more and more space on his lap, is almost more than he can stand. 

“Probably,” Bucky agrees mildly, his eyes never leaving Steve’s face. “Thing is, I don’t really think you’d mind if that happened. Would you?” 

Steve shakes his head slowly back and forth. “No,” he says, at last, letting out a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

*

Bucky watches as Steve leaps to his feet and runs to the kitchen in search of candy, and tugs uncomfortably at the waistband of his sweats. It’s pretty fucking cute, the way Steve gets all hot and bothered, but he’d eaten way too much, and it’s only just now starting to hit bottom. It had been worth it to goad Steve into admitting what he wants, but now he’s not even sure he’ll be able to haul himself off the sofa. If he wants to. Which he doesn’t, particularly.

Steve returns from the kitchen carrying a dauntingly large bag of candy bars. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want,” he says, breathlessly. “So I brought it all.” He rifles through the bag and produces a maple Bun bar, which he holds out toward Bucky like a child trying to entice an animal at a petting zoo. 

It’s just far enough away that Bucky would have to lean forward, probably spread his legs a little to make room for his belly. He’d seen Steve practically coming in his pants when Bucky had leaned over his gut earlier to polish off the last of his dinner, and he’s almost sure Steve is doing this on purpose. 

He doesn’t lean forward. He leans back, stretches his arm along the back of the sofa, and scoots his hips forward, letting his belly settle over the top of his sweats. He rubs a hand over it, pulling at the fabric of his t-shirt so it rides up a little, exposing a fat swell of underbelly. 

“You’re gonna have to bring that over here and unwrap it yourself, pal,” he says, giving his gut a lazy, deliberate pat. “Too full to move.” 

Steve’s jaw goes loose, and he blinks rapidly, struggling to collect himself. Bucky just grins at him, waiting to see what he’ll do. 

What he does is edge closer, unwrap the bar, and hold it right up to Bucky’s mouth. “Better?” he asks. 

Bucky shakes his head back and forth, slowly. “Closer.” 

The only way for Steve to get closer is to crawl onto Bucky’s lap, which, after a few seconds of hesitation, is what he does. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, propping himself delicately on Bucky’s knees, not quite settling his full weight there. “Bucky, if you’re not ready, we don’t have to - ” 

“Shut up and give me the goddamn candy bar,” Bucky says. 

Steve lifts the chocolate bar, slowly, to Bucky’s mouth. Bucky leans forward, takes a bite, and Steve’s breath stops. 

“Was that so hard?” Bucky asks, around a mouthful of chocolate, nuts, and maple cream. “No,” Steve says, as he shoves the other half of the bar into Bucky’s mouth and starts unwrapping another. Bucky doesn’t even register what this one is, just that it tastes like peanut butter and is easier to eat. Steve’s fingers brush his lips as he takes it from his hand. 

Steve feeds him another, and another. Bucky has to catch his wrist to slow him down. “Hey,” he says. “I just ate my weight in Mexican food, you’re gonna kill me here, pal.” 

“You’re the one who wanted candy,” Steve points out, like this is helpful information. 

“Yeah, because this is all about me wanting candy and not about you being so turned on you can hardly sit still.” 

It’s undeniably true; Bucky can feel Steve’s legs quivering where they touch his, and it’s not because his stupid supermuscles are giving out. “That’s pretty rich, coming from someone so full he can’t move.” 

“Yeah, well. Whose fault is that?” 

“It’s your fault,” Steve says. “You didn’t have to eat so much. You could’ve stopped, but you didn’t. And now look at you.” He slips his hand under Bucky’s tummy and tugs at the waistband of his sweats, which have almost no give. “These are getting tight already, aren’t they?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, leaning back a little more, to let Steve get an eyeful. “What are you gonna do about it?” 

Steve leans over his too-full belly and kisses him. 

*

Kissing Bucky is good.

He tastes like chocolate, peanuts and salt, and at first the kiss is almost chaste, a touching of lips, but then Bucky grabs his ass and pulls him up flush against his gut and opens his mouth against Steve’s, biting his lower lip, sweeping into his mouth with his tongue, and Steve groans with the pleasure of it. 

“Took you long enough,” Bucky says against his cheek. 

“Had to wait until your mouth wasn’t full,” Steve says, kissing him again, longer and deeper this time, his hands all over Bucky’s belly, eager and hot, sliding up under his shirt and squeezing handfuls of warm, soft flesh.

The t-shirt is bunched up on the upper swell of Bucky’s gut, underneath his pudgy pecs, and it’s almost better than no shirt at all, because Steve can see all the places where the fabric is pulled thin, where the seams strain, can see how there just isn’t enough shirt to cover him anymore. 

He’d been big before, when Steve had finally found him in Bucharest, bigger than he’d ever been in his life, but this is different, better, because he looks truly fat, with his belly resting on his lap like this, and Steve had gotten to watch him put on every last pound over the past few months. Steve doesn’t know why this should be so blisteringly, all-consumingly hot, but it undeniably is. 

Now this is actually happening, his hands on Bucky, Bucky’s hand on him, his aching cock rocking against Bucky’s thigh, and it’s all too much – Bucky is too much – and he can hardly contain himself. “Bucky – I want you so much,” he says. “Just - _so_ much.” It feels inadequate, but it’s everything. 

“Take this off,” Bucky says, plucking at Steve’s white t-shirt. Steve shrugs out of it in a single fluid movement, tossing it carelessly aside, and when he looks down, the expression on Bucky’s face is almost reverent. 

“God, look at you,” he says, hand drifting down Steve’s upper body, over his pecs, down his flat abs, stopping right above his fly button. “Stevie. Jesus.” His hand rests there for a long moment, and Bucky shoots him a speculative look. 

“C’mon,” Steve says, standing up and taking Bucky’s hand to haul him up off the couch. But then they’re kissing again, and they make their way to the bedroom in fits and starts. Bucky pins Steve against the living room wall, his round belly firm between their bodies, they knock things over on their way to the stairs, and they stop on the stair landing to kiss some more. 

As soon as the door to Steve’s room is closed behind them, Steve’s out of his jeans in the blink of an eye and is working on Bucky’s sweats, tugging them free so fast Bucky hears the seams ripping. 

“Easy,” Bucky says, sinking heavily down onto the mattress, breathing hard. “I’m not up to anything too athletic at the moment.” 

“Then let me,” Steve says. “You don’t have to do anything. Just…let me.” He crawls into Bucky’s lap again, inhaling sharply at the shock of bare skin to bare skin; the slight, soft give of Bucky’s tummy against the smooth skin that covers the ridges of Steve’s abs almost more than Steve can take. He sets his jaw and leans in, nipping at the softness under Bucky’s chin, sliding his hands down his pudgy back to his ass and squeezing, his cock hard and aching against the underside of Bucky’s round gut. 

He drops to his knees in front of the bed and leans forward, kissing his way down Bucky’s body, down the swollen, fulsome curves of him to his cock, urgently hard between his thighs, and swallows him down, lips and tongue working, letting him bump up against the back of his throat and moaning. 

Bucky’s hand clamps onto the back of Steve’s head and his hips move slightly into each long, slow slide of Steve’s mouth, gasping out Steve’s name in little hitching breaths, and Steve loses track of time, his fingers sunk into the soft flesh of Bucky’s thighs, his head bumping against his belly – it seems to take forever and no time at all – and then he feels Bucky’s dick twitch hard in his mouth and moves faster, inviting the sudden, hot rush of him into his mouth, closing his eyes and tasting him, letting him come and come, until he feels every last ounce of tension wrung from Bucky’s body. 

There’s a scant moment of stillness; then, before he really knows what’s happening, he’s on his back, the soft pile of the carpet under his bare back, Bucky’s on top of him, and he ruts senselessly against the pressure, cock sliding against the fat swell of belly. 

“Bucky – Buck – oh, _oh_ ,” he gasps, wrapping his legs around Bucky’s thick waist. “Oh - _Jesus_ \- I’m gonna – I can’t - ” he doesn’t even really know what he’s trying to say, the hard, hot grind of their bodies together is too much, too _much_ , and he can’t hold on for another second. 

*

Bucky feels wrung out, lazy, and it’s a little embarrassing, how out of breath he is when he flops down on the floor next to Steve, who’s flushed pretty and pink, his hair disheveled, managing to look sexed up and innocent at the same time. Bucky, on the other hand, feels—and probably looks—absolutely debauched, with Steve’s come still sticky on his gut, so he swats Steve on his flank. “Go get a washcloth, pal, clean up your mess.”

“Go get your own washcloth,” Steve says, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Can’t, too full.” 

“Too fat, you mean.”

It’s the strangest sensation, the way Bucky’s spine buzzes at that word out of Steve’s mouth. _Fat. He’s fat, Steve says so, he’s getting so fat._ Jesus. The word keeps echoing through his brain, making his whole body tingle.

He huffs, rolling slowly onto his side and facing Steve, hyper-aware of how his tummy rolls over with him, round and insistent. “You keep saying that like an insult, Steve, but you’re begging for it,” he says slowly, giving Steve a lazy once-over. “You literally dragged me out of cryo and started shoving candy down my throat.” He expects Steve to blush, to stutter, to slide into that awkward kind of formality that he retreats into sometimes, when he’s nervous or caught off-guard. Instead, Steve opens one eye and peers over at him. “You were already getting chubby when I found you in Bucharest, Buck.”

Bucky feels his cheeks heat just a tiny bit, because it’s true. Blaming Steve—and his Candy and Memory Mission—for why he’s so chubby, for why his belly is soft and round and jiggles when he walks, is convenient, but it’s not the entire story. If Bucky’s honest with himself, he was already eating until his belly hurt, until it was uncomfortable and hard to take a full breath, before Steve ever found him. 

The fact that Steve had then decided that the best course of action was to ply Bucky with huge amounts of everything they’d ever eaten before the war and call it therapy had just exacerbated the situation. 

Goddamnit. If Bucky has to feel embarrassed about this, so does Steve. “So what is it about this that does it for you, pal?” Bucky palms his belly and gives it a shove, watched with a kind of horrified fascination at the way it undulates under his hand, round and firm but also _fat_ , handfuls of soft pudge accumulating all around his thick waist. “About the gut?”

Steve blinks, and his cheeks flush just a little. Bucky smiles. There it is, that’s the response he’s been looking for. But Steve just shrugs, poking his index finger into the soft, tubby curve below Bucky’s belly button, and when did he get so fucking cocky? “What, the way you’ll let me hand you junk food until you can’t catch your breath or get up off the couch?”

“You mean the way you start squirming around like a kid with a hard-on in church whenever I let you give me a candy bar?”

Steve opens his mouth to protest and then claps it shut again, looking mildly scandalized at the mention of church, and Bucky grins. About fucking time. He leans back and stretches, letting his tummy—which really is obscenely swollen right now, he looks undeniably fat—push forward a little more, just to be perverse. 

“You really are getting fat, Buck,” Steve says, echoing Bucky’s thoughts.

Bucky cocks an eyebrow up. “You really do obviously get off on it.”

“That’s not why I started buying you candy,” Steve begins, because he is nothing if not sincere.

Bucky shifts and cuts him off. “I know, pal. I know.”

Steve looks mollified, and he pats Bucky’s stomach one more time before he jumps deftly to his feet, all lean muscle and grace. It’s a display of agility that makes Bucky a little tired just watching it; even dragging his overfull self up off the floor right now seems like it would be a lot of work. Steve grabs Bucky’s abandoned sweats and tugs them on, smirking a little at how tightly he has to pull the drawstring just to get them to stay up around his hips. “Be right back.”

To Bucky’s surprise, he returns with a warm washcloth and very gently wipes Bucky’s gut clean, like it’s an important job, one to be taken very seriously. 

“C’mon,” he says, and holds a hand out. Bucky leans up and grabs it, letting Steve take the brunt of his weight and tug him to his feet. He’s really fucking full. 

“Stay here,” Steve says, herding Bucky gently toward the bed. “Tonight. Stay here.”

“Too full to leave,” Bucky says, only partially joking.

*

It feels like a lot of different things at once, finally getting to lie down next to Bucky, to be pressed up against each other, thigh to thigh, feeling Bucky’s soft side squished against Steve’s own body. It feels like safety, and homecoming, and like the sexiest thing Steve could ever have imagined, even just lying here together.

It mostly feels like relief, to have something he’s wanted so long, in ways that were almost too big to even articulate, finally happen. 

“Honey?” 

Steve bites his lip to keep from smiling, to keep himself from thrilling at the endearment like a schoolgirl with a crush. “Yeah, Buck?” 

“We got any of that chicken feed left?” 

Steve pushes himself up on one elbow and looks down at Bucky, who looks mouthwateringly _bigstrongsoft_ lying sprawled in between Steve’s sheets, his rounded shoulders and softened pecs and fat belly. “You can’t be hungry.”

“I’m not hungry,” Bucky says. “I just like it, is all.”

Steve bites his lip again, but this time he can’t hold back a grin. “This is why you’re getting so chubby,” he says, already getting out of bed. 

“You sure do like callin’ me fat,” Bucky drawls, tracking him across the room from beneath heavy-lidded eyes. “Some people might say you’re fixated on it.”

Steve swallows. Fucking Bucky. “I’ll be right back.”

“I know,” Bucky says, and Steve can hear the smile in his voice even though he’s already heading out of the room. 

*

It’s sort of amazing, how many little waxy pieces of candy Bucky’s willing to shove down his throat. They’re pure sugar, tooth-rottingly sweet, and Steve could only ever stomach a handful or so without feeling sick, but Bucky pops them in his mouth one after the other, watching Steve all the while. It’s baffling, how he can possibly pack anything else into his unquestionably overstuffed belly—already full of copious amounts of dinner and candy—but it’s also mind-blowingly hot.

“Your stomach’s gonna hurt if you keep eating those,” Steve finally says, partially because there’s something so perversely fucking hot about pointing out Bucky’s gluttony and partially because it’s true, it has to be true. Bucky’s stomach is visibly swollen, distended and round, and it has to ache with all the junk he’s crammed into it on top of his huge meal.

Bucky shrugs and pops a couple more pieces into his mouth. “You can rub it if it hurts.” He says it casually, but Steve can tell by the way Bucky’s watching him, peering up from beneath the fanned fringe of his lashes, that he’s invested in Steve’s response. 

Steve swallows hard and reaches over, laying his hand over the roundest part of Bucky’s belly, marveling in how taut his gut feels, like a packed balloon below a layer of soft chub. “Yeah, I can. I just can’t believe you can keep eating those.”

“Halloween’s next weekend. They’re not gonna be around much longer,” Bucky says. 

Steve smiles, flexing his hand gently and squishing Bucky’s soft stomach, kneading the soft pudge of his lower belly. “You can get them all year long now. I’ll order them for you whenever you want.”

“Shit, welcome to the future,” Bucky sasses, tossing the last remaining pieces of candy into his mouth. 

“It’s pretty swell, right?” Steve leans forward a little, and Bucky—bless him—reaches up and tugs him down until their mouths connect. The kiss tastes like sugar and honey, sticky sweet and warm.

“Yeah Rogers, it ain’t bad.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find us at [delightfulexcess](http://d-lightfulexcess.tumblr.com/) and [missjanedoeeyes](http://missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to discuss fun-sized superheroes. :)


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